Out Of Office Male: Exploring beyond the confines of the rat race

By John McCabe

After a decade of managing IT projects in an investment bank, John McCabe was fearful that the rest of his life would continue to revolve around spreadsheets, conference calls, and e-mails. So he quit his job and embarked on four years of travelling around the world. "Out Of Office Male" summarises his thoughts about life in the rat race, the effort required to escape, the tribulations of a novice backpacker, life on the road, and the many benefits that travel can bring to a mind starved of inspiration.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John McCabe
• Release date: Sep 3, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466161184

John McCabe

John McCabe spent the best part of a decade managing IT projects in an investment bank, with stints in London, Tokyo, and New York. Fearing the tedium of an office-bound existence for the rest of his working life, he then quit his job to travel around the world for four years. He now lives in York, England.

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Out of Office Male

by

John McCabe

Published by John McCabe at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 John McCabe

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Table of Contents

Foreword

Chapter 1 First steps

Chapter 2 A day in the life

Chapter 3 Straying off the standard path

Chapter 4 The Trans-Siberian railway 7th November-1st December 2007

Chapter 5 Why travel?

Chapter 6 Argentinian Patagonia 18th March-4th May 2008

Chapter 7 The power of knowledge

Chapter 8 Hype and expectation

Chapter 9 Where? Who? What? How?

Chapter 10 Sometimes it's the destination

Chapter 11 I am traveller-who am I?

Chapter 12 The aftermath

Foreword

From 1993 to 2005, I worked in information technology as a programmer and project manager—initially in the defence industry, but for the most part in banking. I then spent four years off and on travelling around the world, splitting my journey up roughly by continent and occasionally returning home for family events. My trips comprised: India (four months); Australia (six months in two three-month spurts); Southeast Asia, China, and the Trans-Siberian railway (eleven months); South America (nine months); and Africa (ten months). This book is an attempt to summarise the feelings that led me to leave my job and to decide to travel, the reasons why life on the road was such a formative experience for me, and the conclusions to be drawn now I'm back in normal life again. Needless to say, normal now doesn't mean the same as it did six years ago.

My outlook on my job, my travels, and my life in general has been inevitably shaped by being a Westerner, and much of what I have written is from that viewpoint. This is reiterated in the text and needs to be borne in mind throughout every sentence. I don't know if this book will strike a chord with anyone who hasn't been brought up in a Western society, but it is aimed at the tens of millions of people who are currently experiencing the daily routine of an office job. I've been there, didn't like it, and left. With hindsight, I don't know why I stuck it for so long.

John McCabe

York, England, September 2011

Chapter 1 First steps

The arrivals section at Indira Gandhi International Airport is empty, despite my expectations of a crush of noise and touts. My rucksack waits on the carousel, bearing signs that it's been knocked about in the hold. Some dust, a few scuff marks—it looks a little less like newbie luggage. I guess that the man holding a small cardboard sign must be the taxi driver from my pre-booked hotel and that is indeed the case. We walk to his little white car and I clamber in while he wanders off somewhere. Three young boys approach and stare at me through the window, cupping their hands with pleading faces. I look away, and they shout and bang on the car to attract my attention. I look up again and they repeat their begging routine. I sit staring fixedly ahead as they thump and jabber just inches from me. The driver returns, shoos them away, and we begin the journey into the centre.

The city is a sprawl and dotted with building sites. It's dusty and polluted, low to the ground. There seems little method to the urban planning. I have no sense of how to orientate myself here, no landmarks from which to get my bearings. My attempts to follow our route come to nothing, as I see no street names to correlate with my map. We pause at a set of traffic lights, where a group of girls dashes out into the road to perform cartwheels. One of their number tours the stationary vehicles with a mug, hopeful of donations for this brief spot of entertainment. A man knocks on the window and holds up a Harry Potter book. I shake my head, the lights change, and we move off.

The traffic obeys a vanishingly small set of rules. Road markings are ignored and I see overtaking on both sides. Vehicles signal their presence via constant horn parping, in blasting monotones and musical trilling. There's a universal reluctance to give way, with priority assigned simply by virtue of greater size. Manoeuvring is a test of nerve to be conducted until the distance to contact is mere millimetres. We're sharing road space with handcarts, bicycles, auto-rickshaws, even cows, all swerving in and out from the unlikeliest of directions. It's a chaotic dance. The conditions would seem to demand the utmost concentration but, unnervingly, my driver negotiates this maelstrom with one eye on the rear-view mirror, holding my gaze as he enquires about the price and availability of call girls in the UK.

There's no parking to be had near my hotel so we have to ditch the taxi some distance away and continue on foot. This area is the main backpacker ghetto and is riddled with slender alleyways, tributaries snaking away from a main street. There are literally hundreds of shops, their small frontages all crammed together, the displays spilling over into neighbouring patches, selling any item you could imagine. Mobile food stalls take up further space, and electricity and phone wires dangle precariously overhead.

There is no square inch of street that is considered unmotorable, so I'm dodging all kinds of vehicles, not to mention dogs and beggars. Many of the latter are missing a limb and the pleading on their faces as I walk by causes me to temporarily pause in sympathy, but I don't want to lose contact with my driver. I'm trying to concentrate on too many things—the exotic scene around me, the zigzagging pedestrians, the uneven footing, the occasional minefield of a cow turd or pool of unknown liquid, the pang of guilt at my driver trembling with the effort of carrying my rucksack.

We turn down a crooked, signless street. There's a reeking public urinal right at the entrance that would have dissuaded me from ever venturing down here if I'd been searching on my own. The hotel nameboard isn't even visible until we're halfway along. A cluster of Internet/phone booths catches my eye.

Once in the hotel, the driver plonks my bag down on the lobby floor with relief. I check the soles of my boots, confident that something objectionable must have lodged between the cleats. I look up to see a man smiling behind the reception desk. He waggles his head and declares:

Welcome to India, sir!

****

My room has all the amenities that I could expect for $10 per night, including an Asian loo. My one other experience of such a toilet arrangement was in Japan, and it had not turned out well due to poor spatial awareness on my part. I'm glad that I'll have the opportunity to practise at my own convenience, as it were, though I take precautions for my first attempt by stripping naked. This obviously won't be possible if I ever need to use a public facility but it's a start.

However I spend little time in the room as I'm impatient to explore the neighbourhood. In particular I'm ravenous and in need of sustenance. There are a few suggested restaurants in my guidebook but only one seems to be within half a kilometre and I'm not confident I'll be able to navigate to it anyway. Still, surely it can't be too hard to find somewhere to eat.

Back out on the street and on my own, I'm immediately conscious of how alien I look. The pasty white of my skin is the first give-away that I'm not from these parts, closely followed by the fact that I'm a good eight inches taller than the average Indian male. I see no locals wearing my outfit of a T-shirt and cargo pants, and certainly none sporting a disoriented look. I won't be blending in here.

It's impossible not to gawp at the scene around me, so different is it from London, the capital city I left this morning. The faces hurrying by are predominantly those of men, most graced by a moustache. Clothing is dull, with long-sleeved shirts and dark trousers the uniform of choice. The few women I see stand out even further by virtue of their bright saris but this is no exhibitionism, with skin modestly covered.

The buildings are deprived of maintenance, held together by peeling posters and held up by their equally decrepit neighbours. Their neglect is at odds with the frenetic activity taking place within and around them. They have the look of abandoned ruins that have been returned to. Discarded rubbish accumulates at the margins of the street, pushed there by feet, hooves, and wheels. Neat and tidy it is not. Small splashes of red stipple the ground, which I eventually connect via people's red-stained teeth with being the by-product of chewing a digestive called paan.

The warming sun's heat brings out the richness of the smells in the air, a beguiling mix with something to please and offend every nose. I can't trace most of these smells, their unfamiliar notes interrupted by a couple of familiar ones—the heady fragrance of incense, remembered from my years as a Catholic altar boy, and the unpleasant tang of cow excrement, no more palatable here than in the Yorkshire Dales. The occasional public urinals possess such an acrid stench that I can understand the motivation behind several men I see relieving themselves at the side of the road instead—it's still a surprising sight, though, even in the context of the strange environment I have found myself in. The voices around me speak an unfamiliar language but the volume by itself is exhilarating, suggesting a certain level of business, a certain sense of events in motion.

Ideally I'd like to amble around and get a feel for the area but it's hard to do that under the circumstances. The constant bustle around me means that progression is very much stop-start, what with trying to avoid bumping into people and keeping my feet out of the unsavoury dangers lurking at ground level. The crowd of pedestrians streams past in every direction, discouraging stationary tourists.

I stop to peer into the open doorway of a clothing shop. Immediately the owner is in front of me, welcoming me in and assuring me he has something suitable in his stock. He begs me to enter and I figure it's not an enormous sacrifice to see what he has to offer.

There's a pleasing scent to the interior, provided by a couple of burning incense sticks that have lent a misty aspect to the air. Space is tight, the racks on either side crammed with different styles of Indian garments whose names I don't know. The owner gets to work, sizing me up and whipping several items out from his collection. I feel the fabric, admire the patterns, and ask the price just out of interest.

A friendly grin spreads across his face and he states that I'm his most favoured customer, so I can have his absolute best price. The quote he gives is an order of magnitude higher than I was expecting, even with zero knowledge of the subject. I say that this is considerably more than I'd think of paying, and make to head for the exit. However he's in my way, making it difficult for me to get around him. His price drops by 10% and he tells me that it will be better for me if I buy some local clothing as I won't then stand out so much. I smile and thank him, but say I'm not interested. He still doesn't move to one side and drops his price again. I repeat that I'm not interested and now his expression becomes one of incredulity. You came in my shop but you don't want to buy anything? Why? I say that I was just looking and, besides, he had invited me in, but his frown suggests my words and actions are illogical to him. You mean you won't buy anything? I'm confused and also now a little annoyed, so push past him out into the daylight. He shouts a final price after me.

I'm a little disturbed by this incident as I've never encountered either the aggressive salesmanship or the emotional blackmail before, but I soon realise that this is the norm as I wander past subsequent shops. There is no possibility of just looking. Merely glancing at some product or other will ensure the owner appears by my side and begins a full-on sales pitch. The fact that I've shown the vaguest interest in an item is effectively a confirmation that I'm going to buy it—the only detail remaining to be settled is the price. I don't like this pushy approach at all. In fact, in England I've often walked out of shops if an assistant has simply continued to talk to me after I've said I don't need any help. Manners oblige me to at least acknowledge the many shopkeepers who try to lure me into their stores, though this in itself seems to be an indication of interest, and several even detach themselves from their shop and follow me down the street in an attempt to prolong the conversation.

As such, it's something of a relief when a young chap falls into step with me, says hello, and asks if I mind him walking with me, as he'd like to practise his English. This is sufficiently courteous that I agree, and he tells me that he is a student. He asks me what I plan to see in India, and I say I'll start with a trip around Rajasthan. I mention I'm unsure of the best transport option and he tells me he knows a good travel agent, to which we then head.

This turns out to be the main government tourist office. I explain to the travel agent that I'd like to take a few weeks to explore Rajasthan, at which point he immediately says that the best way will be by chauffeur-driven car. The public transport network is apparently unreliable and uncomfortable, not to mention often inconvenient, so going by car will enable me to eliminate all these potential issues. This totally flies in the face of everything I've read in my pre-India research but I ask him the cost. His response is to ask when I want to leave. I give a vague answer of some time in the next couple of days and repeat my question. He consults his diary, purses his lips, then tells me I can leave the following day or the one after—both are available. I repeat again, what's the price? He tells me that he can give me a special low price, as his driver will otherwise not be earning any money. The price exceeds by a factor of two the prices I've seen in my previous research. This clearly won't be the best option so I tell him I'll think about it and make to leave.

Unfortunately this statement seems to enthuse him, as though by saying I'll consider it I'm actually agreeing to it. He asks me where I'm staying and I carelessly tell him. He immediately says that my hotel will give me a less-experienced driver for the same money, a hardly impartial piece of advice I'm surprised to hear coming from a government agency. He says he can come to my hotel tomorrow to arrange the final details. I repeat that I'm going to think about it, and say I'll come to him if I'm interested. He takes this on board reluctantly, but then hands me a card with his name and phone number on it. I thank him and leave.

My student friend has been waiting nearby, and he asks me if I had any success. I tell him not really and we walk on. He asks me about life in England and I try to explain the tangled progress of my career from England to Japan to New York. We stop for chai, my introduction to the sweet milky brew that I'll soon find is the national drink. Sitting on a low plastic stool, surrounded by Indian men deep in conversation, casting my eyes over the walls of the cafe on which are posters of what I'm assuming are Bollywood stars, and sipping on my chai, I feel as though I've already penetrated—just a little—the surface of Delhi life. We discuss movies, and my friend tells me that they see some great Western films here. I ask for examples and he mentions Anaconda.

I try to pay for the chai with a hundred rupee note (just over $2) and the owner looks at the money with resignation. He tells me he has no change, a phrase I'll soon get used to hearing. It's the smallest note I have yet is still ten times the actual cost of the drinks. He scrabbles around under the counter then digs into his own pockets. Eventually the required amount of change emerges and then my companion and I walk, apparently at random. Minutes later my new friend comes to a halt in front of a carpet store. He tells me that this is an excellent shop, full of fine quality products at bargain prices. He says that I can simply look and don't have to buy, and encourages me in. I don't know how to graciously refuse, so in I go.

Once inside, I'm subjected to the same rigmarole as in the clothes store I'd visited earlier. An assistant immediately latches on to me, gives me a seat, then starts to unroll a selection of carpets in front of me. Within seconds, a dozen are on display, a miniature pashmina Himalayas between me and the exit. I nod as the assistant explains the differences between each. When he has finished, he says I can get a good price if I buy two. I tell him they're all very nice but I'm not sure if I want to be buying anything so early in my trip. He instantly tells me he does delivery anywhere in the world. I tell him it's OK, and he asks me which ones I want. I say I don't particularly want to buy, but his response is to pick up two of the carpets and ask me how much I will pay for them. I assure him I don't want them, and his face then takes on a despondent look. Sir, he says, business is very bad recently and I have four children to feed. Please buy one. Now desperate to escape, I apologise and say I can't help him. It's an effort to pick my way around the carpets and make it to the exit.

My companion seems disappointed to see me emerge empty-handed and queries why I didn't buy anything. I remind him that I only arrived today and hence a major shopping expedition isn't top of my list of priorities. At this, he bids me farewell and mooches off up the street.

I return to the hotel and reread my guidebook. Mentions of nefarious sales tactics and touts seeking commission were in there when I first read the book back in England, but they seemed so different to my previous shopping experiences—even in places like Tottenham Court Road—that it was hard to believe such things would be commonplace. So hard to believe, in fact, that I'd encountered them in the last couple of hours without even recognising them for what they were. Having spent some time in Japan, I know what it's like to obviously not be a local, but in Japan no-one ever tried to take advantage of that fact.